


Summer Games

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: HaiKise Week, M/M, Olympics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 04:58:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4508685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tokyo 2020. The Japanese men's basketball team gets a surprising injury replacement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summer Games

Shougo looks good in that Team Japan jersey, like it was tailored to him—of course it’s closer to his size than his high school jersey or even his middle school one had been, and he’s really got the body to fill it out now, all broad shoulders and biceps and abs that Ryouta can almost see through the jersey. And okay, yeah, the last time Shougo had seen him in uniform had been their second year of high school—despite their on-again, off-again relationship he’s never been to see any of Shougo’s games when he’s home for any reason; he’s never looked them up on the internet. He has very little interest in Shougo’s work, and Shougo shows very little in Ryouta’s. They both play basketball, but in different leagues and different continents—if it’s a sore spot Shougo doesn’t let Ryouta know. Every time the subject comes up, it passes with little urgency but a decided lack of anything to say on it.

So Ryouta has no idea how well Shougo’s doing in the NBL—well enough to actually get along with some of his teammates (they call him and invite him out sometimes, and when he goes Ryouta never goes along with him but he comes home not-quite-sober and needing to be tucked into bed) and well enough to keep his job. But it’s apparently better than that; he’s good enough to get on the Olympic roster for Japan’s strongest team yet, the year they’re hosting the summer games—even if he’s an injury replacement, he’s got to be pretty good to get on a roster full of NBA players and standouts from the European leagues.

And Shougo looks good, but not quite comfortable; this is the first time they’re all together, just to take the photo and then to talk about the game plan afterwards and Shougo’s standing off to the side. The rest have been there before, on the senior men’s national team and before that the junior team; Ryouta’s built up a rapport even with guys like Ootsubo and Nebuya who he only sees for these international tournaments. And Ryouta knows Shougo, knows every wrinkle on the bottoms of his feet and every acne scar on his face and the way he clutches onto things when he’s asleep like a drowning sailor and when the bite in his voice is playful and when he means for it to sound menacing (even though it really, really doesn’t because no matter how much he tries Shougo makes a terrible bad boy). But that’s the way they are in private, wading through the mess on Ryouta’s often-unused Tokyo apartment from the bed to the kitchen to the living room, going for morning runs before the heat and humidity double down on them when the city itself isn’t yet awake. Adding other people complicates things to an absurdly high degree—what can Ryouta say?

Especially with the glares that Kagami (who doesn’t even know Shougo) is sending him, because all that Kagami knows about Shougo is a few minutes of miserable fifteen-year-old Shougo lashing out physically against strangers, against people he hated. Not that Ryouta’s making excuses for him, but it simplifies the situation too much. And like everything else, like Teikou and the rest of high school, it’s buried in the past.

* * *

 

Shougo’s a guard now; he’s on the tall side for NBL guards but it works well enough in the international circuit when they’re facing off against seven-foot monsters from the rest of the world. He’s a little bit shorter than Ryouta, a little bit stockier; it’s something Ryouta takes pleasure in when they’re tangled up on a bed or in the haze of late summer when they take a day off to go to the beach and he’s spreading sunscreen all over the expanse of Shougo’s back, so different from his own—he’s still on the thin side, though; he’s still slick and fast and his hands are soft on the ball and he’s grown into being able to use that dazzling array of moves he’d plucked from the hands of others well, wield it like a hundred-bladed weapon so that he’s awfully hard even for any of them to defend in practice because he’s so quick and versatile. None of the things he can do are particularly impressive on their own, but he’s found a way to make them impressive; he doesn’t trash-talk any of them or even look like he might stomp on anyone’s foot—of course, they’re teammates and he probably wants to win.

None of the others trust him, although Ryouta can’t say he does fully, either—but he wants to make the effort, even if he hasn’t gotten time alone with Shougo since the games have started and their first game is tomorrow. So when the team splits off after practice to grab food and drink, Ryouta seizes the chance, and Shougo accepts.

It ends up being just them and Murasakibara (Aomine and Kagami had bailed on them once Shougo had gotten involved, after pulling Ryouta aside and asking him if he was sure and Ryouta had told them that they really didn’t have to do this if they didn’t want to) and they all end up hitting a bar full of off-duty French reporters.

The conversation is okay; it starts off slow and neither Murasakibara or Shougo is much good at carrying these things without trying (and neither of them clearly wants to) but there’s very little animosity or hatred, if any. They end up talking about shounen manga (probably the same ones they were reading in middle school, although they all sound the same to Ryouta) and for them it’s almost amicable and easy-going. Ryouta sips his drink and watches, and Shougo does not catch his eye. When Shougo makes his way to the bathroom, Ryouta follows, and they still don’t say anything.

The hallway to the bathroom is dark and musty; this bar is seedier than the ones Ryouta would usually pick. But it’s perfect for stopping Shougo on the way back, grabbing his wrist and feeling the bones poking at the skin like always, the beginnings of the firm callouses on his palm. Shougo turns. He’s half-grinning, evident even in the pale flicker of the light from the main room all the way down the hall.

“What took you so long?”

Ryouta leans in closer. “What made you so sure I was going to?”

“The way you kept looking at me. It’s kind of cute, Ryouta; I saw you.”

Ryouta shrugs. “What if I wanted you to, Shougo-kun?”

“Do you think I care?”

“Yes,” says Ryouta, and then he kisses Shougo, presses their dry palms together synchronously with their wet lips.

They fit together like they always do; it doesn’t even take a few seconds to become re-accustomed to Shougo’s taste and touch, to his energy vibrating like a cell phone gone out of control in the air.

“Oh, so you’re here,” says Murasakibara.

He’s leaning on the wall, hand touching the ceiling because it always can (even when they’re in another country where the walls are higher) and looking unflappably bored as usual. He doesn’t seem shocked and impressed at their display of affection or whatever that was, and that’s probably what prevents Shougo from outright pushing Ryouta away. He won’t hold hands on the way back, but their arms are close enough to brush against each other every now and then and to constantly feel the heat.

* * *

 

Ryouta’s never actually played in a game with Shougo. He doesn’t realize that until Coach calls a time-out and there’s Shougo, dispensing of his t-shirt and shaking out the tightness from his arms; a minute or so later he’s on the floor and he makes a clean pass to Ryouta and Ryouta nails a three; he’s all over the floor just the way he’d been in practice only more brutal because they’re facing a weaker team, redirecting passes and getting in on defense and all this time when Shougo had been growing up from a bitter and reckless boy into a snarky and self-preserving man he’d grown into a real basketball player, too. He probably wouldn’t last a few games as an NBA starter, but he’s much better than Ryouta had even given him credit for in practices, much closer to being able to keep up with them.

And he does it again, steals the ball with a move Ryouta half-recognizes from some opponent buried back in the timeline that he didn’t care enough about to copy, racing back down and laying down a dunk that reverberates off the hoop—it doesn’t break it but the sound is deafening, strong; it’s a statement—and for the first time their opponents look very uncertain; there’s defeat in their eyes already. And Shougo’s always had a flair for the dramatic—back in middle school it had been messy, unruly, to go with his hair and his personality and the way he’d approached everything with no clear plan, asserting itself wildly and all the time but here it’s the perfect opportunity, solid and centered.

He can’t take too many minutes at this pace, and soon enough Midorima’s back in but Ryouta’s still thinking about Shougo, the sharp connections of their passes cutting through the air.

* * *

 

“You’re shocked I was that good, huh?”

Ryouta rolls his eyes. “Please, Shougo-kun. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Ain’t so high-and-mighty above me, huh?” says Shougo.

Ryouta presses Shougo against the shower wall; right now he’s literally looming over Shougo despite their relatively small height difference, so Shougo’s words are worthless in every way and he knows it. Shougo’s hands slip against his, slick with soap; his wet hair sticks out in all directions. They have another game in eight hours, but they can afford a little break for themselves. Not that Ryouta wants to be unprepared, because if tomorrow’s game is anything like today’s had been, he’s going to have to bring his a-game. And from the energetic way Shougo is responding underneath him, clean wet toes curling against Ryouta’s on the bottom of the shower stall, there’s no way he’s not bringing his. 


End file.
